


Domani Non Viene

by stellar_dust



Series: Threnody [2]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Alternate Timeline, F/M, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-04-15
Updated: 2004-04-15
Packaged: 2017-10-07 02:47:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellar_dust/pseuds/stellar_dust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mulder copes, remembering Scully.  An interlude.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Domani Non Viene

**Author's Note:**

> This is part 1.5 of what would have been an alternate Season 8. The story is finished, but the series is not, and probably never will be.
> 
> "Forget Domani" is performed by Frank Sinatra.

X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X

 

Domani Non Viene

"One man alone cannot fight the future."   
\-- Strughold, The X-Files Movie

 

X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X

 

"Let's forget about tomorrow,  
let's forget about tomorrow,  
let's forget about tomorrow, for - "

" - tomorrow never comes," Mulder softly finished the refrain with Ol' Blue Eyes, his own hazel ones closed and leaking slow tears.

Fox Mulder liked his music the way he liked his science fiction - vintage, comforting, and well-aged. There were those who might take exception to calling "Revenge of the Blob that Ate Cincinnati" "well-aged," precisely, but that wasn't one of his favorites, anyway, and hey, it was the thought that counted.

That was why he liked Elvis: he'd grown up on those records, the strains of "Jailhouse Rock" and "Blue Suede Shoes" filling the house, a background to childhood memories from the time before his life went to hell and back. Just as his parents' Sinatra records would play in the evenings, after he'd gone to bed, when they were still in love and dancing in the living room hadn't yet given over to screaming around the kitchen table.

Scully was different. She was younger than him, he reasoned; but not *that* much younger. She was mostly into classic rock: Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, the Doors, Three Dog Night. "Never understood a single word he said, but I helped him drink his wine - " If those words didn't sum up their relationship, what did? She liked some of the newer groups, too: Metallica, Moby, Green Day, Counting Crows. Some of her tastes were starting to grow on him, he had to admit, but - how in the world could he have let himself fall in love with a *Beatles* fan?

Anyway, after Scully had appeared at his door that night, like a vision in the starlight, bringing him release and perfection and everything he'd ever dreamed of - afterward, with Scully nestled snugly against his body, as he strove to memorize every facet of her, every square inch of her skin and hair and face, each scar and bruise and every twitch of her muscles, her perfect nails, one of them ragged, her full lips open in sleep, still wet and swollen from his kisses, marveling at the peace she seemed to find here, with him, his mind clamoring at him to preserve this moment that might never come again, that in the morning he could be dead or back in the nuthouse, finally succumbing to his fevered mind and never knowing what the rest of his life with this woman would hold, happy beyond expression that they'd finally shared this night, even if no more would ever, could ever follow -

He'd spooned up behind and pulled her closer, wrapping both arms around her and resting his chin on her shoulder. "This is it, Scully," he'd whispered in her ear. "This moment is forever. No matter what happens tomorrow, or the next day, or the next, I'll always be right here with you, right now. And you're with me." He'd shifted and buried his face in the curve of her neck, infusing himself with her scent. "I'm stopping the clock right here, Scully, I'm freezing time, I'm taking these seconds and engraving them in stone." Let's take the minutes as they speed away, and hope it's true what people say: when you're in love - "Tomorrow never comes."

"Mmm, Mr. Bond," Scully had turned slowly in his arms, moving to face him again, her eyes heavy with sleep and smiling. "Don't you mean 'Tomorrow Never Dies'?"

"Mmmm, no," he'd thrummed deep in the back of his throat, covering her collarbone with kisses. "The name's Mulder, miss. Fox Mulder. And I always say what I mean."

She'd laughed and swatted lazily at him, told him to go to sleep and not to worry, she'd always be there and so would he, they had years and years ahead of them full of moments just like this one. And he'd taken an inviting nipple in his mouth and sent one hand questing between her thighs to quiet her so he wouldn't have to tell her that she was wrong, not that night anyway - he could always tell her tomorrow, and tomorrow never comes.

She'd gasped and moved toward him, protesting that they had a meeting tomorrow and he should stop so they could sleep - sounding as though they'd been lovers for years instead of only half a night - which he supposed they had, really, if he thought about it - but he hadn't stopped, and she'd climaxed around his fingers, gasping out his name as her arms shuddered clasped tight around him, her mouth worrying the tender skin of his neck, leaving a mark that he took special pains _not_ to cover up for the meeting the next day, earning him an exasperated look but an apology and another kiss to make it better when they'd finally made it down to their office. He had no idea what the meeting had been about.

He hadn't told her that day, or the next, or any of the too-few tomorrows that had followed. He'd told himself that she would find out eventually, and in the meantime there was nothing she could do: he would give her as many blissfully ignorant days as he could, and shower her with love and affection while he was still around to do it. She'd had no idea that this outpouring of emotion came from anything other than the sudden release of seven years' worth of pent-up tension and firmly bottled love; she laughed, gently, at his overeager attentions, but never suspected a thing. When she'd caught him staring at her, brooding, melancholy written on his features, he'd said he was afraid of the future - he hadn't specified _which_ future and had let her soothe away his fears about colonization.

And now it was too late.

"Let's forget about tomorrow, for  
tomorrow never comes!"

"God damn liar."

Mulder hit "stop" and threw the remote at the stereo, unsure if he was directing that at Frank or at his own words of not even a month ago. He creaked himself upright - he was creaking a lot lately - and rested his forehead on his hands, massaging the headache that never seemed to entirely disappear anymore.

Tomorrow had come - and by all appearances, had every intention of continuing to come - and Scully wasn't there. That moment engraved in stone was eroding fast, awash in the tide of reality; he grasped at it desperately, running his mental finger over the words even as they faded into dust. Scully was his reality, his eternity; and without her his entire world crumbled into a single dark point of dust in the trash pile of the universe, fading silently and unheralded into nothingness.

_I don't want to die without you, Scully,_ he thought, even as he felt himself doing that very thing. His nightly litany as he curled up on his couch for another sleepless night, or, more and more often, in her bed in her apartment. _I want another tomorrow, just one more, with you, Scully._

Tonight, as he drifted in the state between aching and nightmares, he could swear he heard her answer as plainly as if she were sitting next to him: _/Yes. Mulder, don't give up on me, or on yourself. I believe in you. I won't let you go alone./_

He wrapped himself in those words and slept peacefully for the first time since Bellefleur.


End file.
